


This Doesn't Mean A Thing

by rayeliann



Series: Tangled Threads [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blood and Gore, Body Image, Body descriptions, F/M, Gen, Grey Wardens, Innuendo, Nudity, Swearing, Violence, Vomiting, joining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayeliann/pseuds/rayeliann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning for Carver Hawke and Rowan Cousland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yer A Warden, Carver!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find it on tumblr: http://rayeliann.tumblr.com/post/122061419673/rowan-x-carver-i-need-a-drink

Carver woke after his joining with a ringing still hanging in his ears.  His vision swam, and for a moment, he thought it might all be a terrible dream or another of Mors’ jokes.  

Concerned, low voices of the uniformed men that crouched over him were garbled and far-away, like hearing through water.  Carver forced himself to focus and push past the ringing, the thrumming in his head, and the strange, sickening pull that crawled through his veins.  His skin itched.  He moved, as if to scratch at it, and one of the men caught his hand.

“It’s the blight.  You can sense the darkspawn.  You’re a Grey Warden now.”  The man explained, his dark blue eyes fixing on Carver.  He was the one Anders had called Stroud, and he seemed to be in charge here.  

“I - what?- my brother - “  Carver sputtered as thoughts surged through him, too many to sort into sentences.  Stroud’s lips quirked, his prominent mustache twitching with amusement.

“Give it some time to sink it, eh?”  He’d barely gotten the words out - in a gruff but kind, understanding tone, when another of the Wardens let out a long, low whistle.  This seemed to signal something, and Stroud stood up, straightening to his full height as he turned away.  Carver scrambled to his feet, as it was clear something was happening.  He stumbled, still a bit foggy, and a nearby warden steadied him. 

They were still near the entrance to the Deep Roads.  He remembered the Wardens rushing him through tunnels toward the surface before they performed the ritual they called The Joining.  He could see the entrance, a wide dark tunnel that seemed to go on forever into the dark.  It beckoned, and Carver absently wondered if he would ever see sunlight again.  Mors was probably basking in it, taking it for granted, the bastard.  The next time he saw him, he would have a word or two for…. _oh_.  Realization settled in, like a punch to the gut.  He might never see his brother again.  Or Mother.  Or any of them… 

There was a second long, low whistle from one of the Wardens standing guard on the edge of their little camp.  Something was moving at the edge of the shadows down the tunnel, just out of sight.  

After a few tense moments, two sharp, higher pitched chirps answered from the darkness.  Carver noticed his companions let out audible sighs of relief. 

The shapes moving in the dark turned out to be two more wardens.   A lanky, dark-haired man and a younger woman with pretty, sad features.  Her hair was cut short, just at her chin, and a grimy honey-brown.  It hung in wavy, unwashed locks around a battle-hardened face.  Dirt and all manner of grime masked a freckled complexion and green eyes darted about warily.  

The man leaned heavily on the shorter woman, allowing her to support most of his weight.  A tight bandage was tied around a large portion of his upper- thigh, and his face contorted in pain.  As they neared, the others rushed to relieve her, and help him into the camp.  A mage fussed over the wound as a fellow offered the man a flask.  He accepted with a gruff, gracious response.  The woman waved off the attentions of her companions, and sidled up to Stroud.

“Genlock caught him on the way back.  It’s not serious.”

“Good.  I had started to worry.  And… Darwith?  He is…?”

“Not coming.  Ah, and I see our recruit is awake.  Survived after all, have you?  Good.  I would hate for our rush to the surface to have been in vain. Only you would find strays in the middle of no where, Stroud.”  Her green eyes lit on Carver, and he felt a jolt of nervous energy run up his spine.  Shit.  Was he blushing?  No.  Absolutely not.  He didn’t blush.

“ _He_ found us.  If you remember, Anders brought him.”  Stroud’s gravelly voice carried the lilt of an accent, and he fixed the woman with a stoic stare.  She looked strangely familiar…  Carver remembered a female warden being with Stroud when his brother had handed him over, but it was hazy.  He had memories of a feminine voice prodding at him to stand, to walk… but he had been so tired and the blight sapped his strength, growing stronger.  Had this been the same woman?

“Anders.”  Her eyes flashed gold, and she frowned at Stroud.

“You.  Hawke.”

“Carver.”  He corrected her before he even realized the words were coming out of his mouth.  No.  No no no.  Not a good start.  

“Right. Carver. You know Anders then?  Was he… alone?”  she asked carefully, but her tone implied that she knew what he did.  Carver considered carefully.  Anders had mentioned that he had left the Grey Wardens - and that this was not a thing that people normally got away with.  And Mors had sworn them all to secrecy about Ander’s…. condition.  But these people were to be his new brothers in arms.  How could he trust them to watch his back if he lied to them on his first day?

“I…I had heard the Grey Wardens made him get rid of his cat.”  Carver answered carefully.  It was not a lie.  But it was not an answer either.  The woman huffed, rolling her eyes.

“Maker’s balls!  The cat again.  I swear he is marching across Thedas telling everyone that the Grey Wardens kick kittens.”  She grumbled, hands on her hips.  

“I believe Justice was still with him.”  Stroud answered the question that Carver had dodged, and he breathed a sigh of relief.  

“Fantastic.  I need a drink.”  She left Stroud and Carver standing together in her wake, stepping over to where the other wardens fussed over the now recovered, grinning dark-haired man.  Stroud shifted uncomfortably, he was clearly the one in charge here, but he seemed to respect her almost as an equal.

They both watched as the injured man grinned, making a toast and brandishing his silver flask.  The arrows in his quiver tipped out, spilling onto the ground with the motion.

“That is Nathaniel Howe.  He came over from Amaranthine.  Fereldan like you.”  Stroud offered, following Carver’s gaze.  He offered a hand in belated greeting as he continued.

“And I am Jean-Marc Stroud.”  Carver clasped the older man’s gigantic hand in greeting, forcing himself not to grimace from crushing weight of his handshake.

“And she was?”  Carver asked as he clasped Stroud’s hand and nodded in the woman’s direction.  She’d left quite the impression.  Stroud made a sound that was almost a chuckle, shaking his head.

“That’s Rowan Cousland.  She’s Fereldan too.  No, not _that_ Cousland, Rowan’s her sister.  Best not to mention that.  She’s a bit sensitive.  Rowan scouted the route that got us to the surface in time, and collected the ingredients for your Joining for you.  Normally we have recruits do that themselves.  We... we weren't sure you had the time.”

“Errr…. Thank you?”

“You are a Warden now, Carver.  It is not a gift.  You may have survived but there is no turning back.  This is a calling.”  Stroud left him with these words as he moved to join the others.

Carver hesitated in following him, but Nathaniel Howe’s laughing eyes sparkled as they lit on him, and he motioned him over with a hearty greeting.  Carver took a deep breath, and tried to quiet the nerves in his stomach and the shaking of his hands.  

_Here’s to life as a warden…_


	2. Cruel and Unusual Punishment

“One month’s time everyone.  Get your routes scouted and patrol near the Deep Roads entrances.  Make sure they are quiet and sealed up tight.”  Ser Stroud stood over a make-shift table in the Warden camp where his map had been spread out.  His big, square finger rested on a place along the Wounded Coast as their rendezvous point.  They had been assigned routes near Ostwick and Starkhaven, venturing further away from Kirkwall.  Carver shifted uneasily.  

He would not miss the city, but it would be so strange to be so far from Mother and Mors.  It did not feel right leaving them with Gamlen.  Had the expedition panned out?  Had Varric kept his word?  Had Mors been able to buy back the family estate?  It was hard to focus on darkspawn with these lingering worries… perhaps it was for the best that they would be leaving the area.

“Rowan.  You’ll be taking the new kid.  I need someone to check the Ostwick prisons for recruits.”

“And you’re picking me?”  Rowan objected, green eyes sparking.  She frowned, arms crossed tightly over her chest, and her hip popped defiantly.

“Well you are our senior member after Stroud.”  Nathaniel Howe piped up helpfully.  He wore a wide, smug grin, and Rowan just _knew_ he was in on this somehow.

“Well I’m hardly one to sell the Wardens.  Join us and leave or stay here.  Either way, you’ll probably die.”  Rowan snarked, rolling her eyes at Howe.  Stroud’s brow furrowed, and his mustache bristled.

“You will not have to go down into the Deep Roads.”  Stroud grumbled, as if this was a way to appease his grumpy lieutenant.

“I don’t mind the Deep Roads.  It’s where the uglies are.”  Rowan replied shrugging.  The other Wardens shifted uncertainly around her, looking at each other.  Carver had not been a Warden long, but he had seen enough of the Deep Roads to know this had to be an unpopular and uncommon opinion.  It was clear that this assignment was somewhat coveted… why was she protesting?

“But I could use some sunshine.”  Rowan amended finally with a carefree smile.  “Do I have to take the tenderfoot?”  

Carver started as several sets of eyes turned to him.  He hadn’t realized… they meant him.  They were standing right there, in front of him, talking like he wasn’t there. 

“Hey, I can handle myself just f-”  Carver protested, but he was cut off, interrupted by a single word from the Senior Warden.  

“Yes.”  Stroud met Rowan’s grumpy stare with a stoic, impenetrable look of his own.  His tone was calm and even, but final.  It was clear that he had done all of the bargaining he meant to do by giving her the choice assignment.  One way or another, she would be stuck with Carver.  Rowan decided to take the sunshine.

“Fine.”  she grumbled, eying Carver with with a burning, scrutinizing look.  He suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable in his own skin.

“Soldier?”  She asked tensely, her eyes studying his sword and the callouses on his hands.  He folded them behind his back, scowling.

“Ostagar.”  He answered, as if that explained everything.  A flicker of something ran over her face, like a passing shadow - so fast he might have imagined it.  She made the slightest of movements, one of her shoulders jerking sharply.  How _stupid_ of him… he had forgotten what had happened to the Grey Wardens at Ostagar.  Had she been one of the ones that had survived?  If her sister was the Hero of Fereldan… Rowan must have been there too. _Idiot._

“Loghain’s men?”  Her voice was odd, strange and detached, as if she didn’t want to care too much, so she had opted for hollow and empty.

“King’s Army.“  Carver replied quickly, unable to hide the way his brow furrowed at the idea of surviving based on the Teyrn’s betrayal.  He’d barely gotten out alive.  So many had not.

“Hmmmprh.  At least you’re easy on the eyes.”  She said finally, when she was unable to come up with anything to find at fault with their newest recruit.  She stalked off, pausing only to point a finger in the center of Nathaniel Howe’s chest threateningly.  The victorious, good-natured laugh he’d been enjoying died on his lips, clearly intimidated by the much smaller woman.

“You’re taking my watch shift tonight.”  Rowan said it with certainty, as if she knew Howe would not object.  When she removed her finger and continued to her tent, Howe dissolved into hearty laughter, surrounded by his fellow Wardens.

“Worth it.” 


	3. “ Whiiiiishhhkk!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find it on tumblr: http://rayeliann.tumblr.com/post/122735401998/whiiiiishhhkk

As the other Wardens clustered around the cook-pot, quarreling over the proper herbs to add to a ram-stew, Carver sidled over to where Nathaniel Howe was meticulously checking the fletching on his arrows. He was sitting on a low log that had been split and turned over to form a bench. The archer nodded in Carver’s direction with a jerk of his chin and a grunt in lieu of a greeting.

“Nathaniel – “

“You can call me Nate. All of the other Wardens do. Whole name is a bit of a mouthful.” Howe said with a grin, finishing up his fletching and sliding the arrows neatly into his quiver. He fixed a hazel gaze on Carver, his full attention now engaged. Carver nodded in mild surprise… Had he just made a friend?

“What’s on your mind?” Nate asked as he gestured for Carver to pull up the other half of the split-log bench and join him.

“Oh. Well… It’s about tomorrow. My partner…” Carver fidgeted, shifting as he spoke, and trying to find a seated position where his knees were not jamming him in the face. He floundered, unaccustomed to phrasing things delicately, suddenly unsure of his words. He had no wish to mis-speak and offend someone accidentally. He was new here, and this was to be his life now… he might want to try to get along. Mors was always saying he spoke before he thought, joking that Carver’s head was so hard he would just put it down and charge through like an angry druffalo. He just wanted to know what he was going into…

“Carver, have you heard of the Praying Mantis?” Nate asked, seemingly ignoring Carver’s question. He continued, not waiting for an answer. The question was rhetorical anyway.

“It’s this strange looking little bug. Kind of pretty really, in a macabre way. But it eats other bugs. Butterflies, moths, what have you. And it can camouflage itself and make you think it is a leaf or something perfectly harmless. And when mantises mate… when they are finished with their partner, the female – _whiiiiishhhkk_ – she decapitates and then devours him. He never sees it coming.” Nate made a gruesome slashing motion over his neck to accompany his anecdote before fixing Carver with a serious stare.

“Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I—I think so?” Carver replied, his brow scrunching quizzically as he regarded his fellow warden. Howe leaned in close, his tone dropping low so as to not be overheard.

“Rowan… she’s like a mantis. Sort of pretty in a dangerous, alluring way. She’ll pull you in and then… when you least expect it…”

“ _Whiiiiishhhkk_?” Carver asked, mimicking Nate’s earlier gesture as he cocked an eyebrow. Howe grinned, pointing at him as he nodded.

“Exactly. Look at poor Torrence over there. Used to be a sensible lad.” Nate jerked his chin toward the fire, directing Carver’s attention to a tall, slender-looking, scruffy fellow who was shamelessly staring open-mouthed at Rowan. She was running over one of her swords with a whetstone, and stopped to push some of her short hair from her face as she looked up scowling. Her hair caught the fire-light and flickered a honey-brown, her eyes sparking green and gold. Carver looked hard at the ground, not wanting to be caught staring like poor, slack-jawed Torrence.

Carver must have looked away just in time, as he heard Rowan’s voice snarl across camp.

“Oy, Torrence. What do you think you’re staring at?”  

Howe stifled a chuckle with a cough, and shook his head sadly.

“Poor boy’s lost his head.”

Carver snorted as he tried (and failed) to keep from laughing. At this sound from him, Nate lost the tenuous grip he had on his own laughter. The two of them chortled in low tones as Rowan berated poor, doomed Torrence.

“Is she always so grumpy?” Carver asked after a while. This had been his original question, and he was thankful for an opportunity to let it come up so naturally.

“Oh. She’s got good reason to be grumpy. You’ve heard what happened to the Couslands. Rowan over there won over the dwarves, crowned their king and spent a good bit of time in parts of the Deep Roads that the Legion of the Dead don't dare to go anymore.  She found the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She killed a damn high dragon. She’s the toughest person I’ve ever met. She saved grizzly old Arl Eamon and his whole town from corpses and blood mages. Even managed to save his boy from some kind of deal with a demon. What’s she get for it? Locked up in Fort Drakon. Tortured. She was Queen Anora’s personal guard for the Archdemon battle. I heard she re-took half of Denerim and held the gates with a handful of soldiers. But her sister gets the title and all the glory. They weren’t getting along so well when I came along. Sniping at each other every chance they got. I didn’t ask much more. But she stood up for me. She’s the reason I’m a Warden now and not swinging from the gallows at Vigil’s Keep.” Nate smiled to himself. He was serious now, and his eyes were soft and far-away.

“I was stupid and brash and I wanted vengeance for my Father’s death. I… I had come to kill her. Both of them if I could. I didn’t deserve a chance. But she gave it to me. Your friend Anders too.” They sat in silence for a while, Howe’s words hanging in the air between them. Carver felt a twinge of comradery with Rowan already. He knew what it was like to be the least-favored sibling. To carry so much of the weight of something, and to get no recognition for it. That year after they arrived in Kirkwall, when they worked for Meeran and his mercenaries… People had been whispering Mors’ name already. Hawke was on everyone’s lips. No one had bothered to see if he had help. No one bothered to find out that there were _two_ Hawke brothers. Yeah… He could relate.

“I always thought Wardens were at home in the Deep Roads. It seemed strange that she would turn down a chance to go into a city. Why is that?” Carver finally asked, the question had been pulling at him for a while.

“None of us likes the Deep Roads. Well… I knew a dwarf from the Legion of the Dead back in Fereldan. She seemed to like them just fine. And Rowan, she seems… content in the dark. It doesn’t get to her the way it gets to the rest of us. After a while it weighs on you and there is an urge to see the sky, smell fresh air and walk in the grass in bare feet. Rowan… isn’t like that. She doesn’t need sunshine like the rest of us, and she smiles when she talks about Orzammar.”

“Do you spend much time in the Deep Roads?”

“Too much. But, you’ll see that soon enough. Enjoy the sunshine and fresh air while you can. Drink it in, you’re a Warden now.”


	4. Sweet Dreams Are Made of This - Who am I to Disagree?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find it on tumblr:  
> http://rayeliann.tumblr.com/post/123654807578/sweet-dreams-are-made-of-this-who-am-i-to

They left the Warden camp early in the morning. A chill hung in the air and dew clung to the grass as they passed through it, along the lesser-known paths.

Carver had been outfitted with a pack and supplies, just as the other Wardens carried, and marveled at the size and weight of it as he hoisted it onto his broad shoulders. Ahead of him, Rowan carried a backpack that put his own to shame, tossing it over her shoulder with a casual and familiar ease as she secured it in place.

Rowan had secured her swords across the back of her hips, just below her pack and still within reach. She had been wearing them on her back on the previous occasion when he had seen her emerge from the Deep Roads, but the tall pack of supplies made that a less accessible option. Carver had fumbled a bit, trying to broach this own problem, as he had found his own sword far too large for this, surpassing both of the rogue’s weapons in length and breadth. Rowan watched him struggle with a sardonic smile on her lips before taking the greatsword, sheath and all, and stepping lightly around him. A tight hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him down, within her reach. With an almost violent motion, Rowan thrust the sword and scabbard down behind Carver’s pack and his back before circling around to secure the belt that held it in place across his chest.

“Like a baby deer learning to walk.” She muttered under her breath to herself.

Carver was about to object, but the image of a spotted little fawn he had once seen came swimming back to him. They had been living in Lothering, it must have been after their father had died. He’d had yet another fight with Mors, and Mother was shouting at both of them in between her crying spells. He’d stormed out of the house in a fit, just wanting to get away, wanting to find some time to himself to think. He’d taken his sword with him, and had tired himself out hacking away at a stump at the edge of the woods. Dusk had crept up on him, and he remembered catching sight of the little creature and its mother through the trees. The fawn was trying to balance on spindly, knobbly legs too tall for it as they kept buckling and wavering uncertainly.

Carver bit his tongue, cheeks flaring hot with embarrassment. Was that how all of the Wardens saw him? A sweet, cluelessly innocent little creature fumbling and barely able to stand? He would prove them wrong. They would see. Everyone would see.

Carver followed Rowan through the wilderness, his jaw set and tight as he was determined not to let her see him strain. He kept pace with her rather easily, which surprised him. He was in decent shape from chasing Mors about, but she was a Grey Warden. But, then again, he was now too. It must be one of the attributes, he decided to himself. If Rowan was surprised to see him match her pace, she did not show it, regarding him with the same even scowl when she looked at him at all. She didn’t speak to him, communicating through perfunctory gestures and low grumbles or grunts. A few times, he thought he heard her mutter something under her breath, but did not catch it.

It was not until the sun had started to sink low, and dusk overtook them that Rowan consented to stop and make camp. She shrugged off her pack, tossing it down against a boulder, one of the dozens that adorned the sloping hillside. This one jammed against another at an odd angle, providing them a little place to make camp with decent cover.

Carver felt his brow lift, clearly impressed with Rowan’s choices for campsite. He had decent enough survival skills, his father had made sure of that. A family of apostates never knew when they might have to drop everything and run. It had made for a life where looking over his shoulder had become second nature. Even so, the boulders created an opportunity he might not have recognized. If his taciturn new partner was anything, she certainly was creative.

Camp was a small tent that leaned to one side, the green-grey canvas material worn and lumpy. They’d brought jerky and hard biscuits from the Warden supplies, so they did not chance a fire. Carver found himself strangely wary – of what, he could not be sure. There was no creeping, tingling feeling, as there had been after the Joining, so it must not be darkspawn he was concerned about. Perhaps it was simply the unease of the realization that he was completely and utterly alone in the wilderness with a total stranger. For the first time in… forever, Mors was not here to look out for him with one of his flashing smiles and a well-placed fireball.

As if she sensed his unease, Rowan approached Carver, sitting down beside him, a small, wrapped lump in her hands. A tiny, delicate knife dangled between her fingers lazily held, as she looked at him closely. Carver swallowed hard, warily returning her gaze.

“It’s not what you imagined is it?” Rowan asked with a lopsided grin. Her green eyes sparkled in the dying light of the sun through the trees. She carefully unwrapped the little bundle, slicing off a tiny wedge of cheese from the wheel inside the wrappings. She offered it to Carver, a gesture of goodwill, and his wild imagination quieted. She was not going to kill him and leave his body out here in the woods. She was just a grumpy woman. There was no reason to fear her.

“I… no.” Carver answered, admitting what he had been thinking since Mors had left him to the mercy of Stroud and the other Wardens. It felt like so long ago… Maker, had it only been a few days?

“Mmm… I used to think the Wardens were this great order of shining heroes. It’s sad when our heroes turn out to be regular people.”

“The Wardens ended the Blight.” Carver blurted out, forgetting the earlier advice to not mention that little bit to Rowan. Oooh, he could have smacked himself!

“Oh yes. They did at that.” She simply said. Her voice sounded hollow and almost sad. After seeing her storm about camp, threaten Howe, and scowl at him for the most part of the day, this was not what he expected from his new partner. She said no more, pocketing the little bundle that was the cheese wheel, tucking it away in a pouch as she flicked the neat little dagger between her fingers absently.

* * *

 

Some time later, Carver found himself lying flat on his back, staring up at the folds of the tent’s ceiling. He had been surprised when Rowan had indicated they would share a tent. She chuckled at the idea of a watch, saying that most Wardens were accustomed to traveling alone. She was a light sleeper.

Carver had continued to balk at the idea of sharing a tent with her, raising concerns of propriety that brought sharp laughter from her. Rowan sneered that propriety and etiquette were things created to keep people in their places. Wardens were beyond that, she said, mumbling something about brood mothers not appreciating good manners. Noting that Carver was still reluctant, Rowan grumbled that he would not be as hesitant to share a tent with one of the men. He’d probably done so often in his soldier days. She had him there.

Rowan’s eyes had flashed as she insisted she was a Grey Warden first, a rogue, a Fereldan, a Cousland, and only after all of that, a woman. She waved off his apologizes as she pulled off her armor, stretching her arms and legs with content, groaning sighs. Carver caught himself watching her movements – there was a jarring, raw sort of grace to the way she moved – and scolded himself mentally.

Carver fidgeted, unable to fall asleep, acutely aware of Rowan’s steady breathing. She had no problems finding slumber, and her face seemed to clear, the scowl replaced by an almost soft open-ness. Even the lines of her cheekbones smoothed out, her lips falling slack and parting ever so slightly. Past the light scars and the bruise that was still healing, she looked like she might have once been a great beauty. It was almost sad to think of her as noble lady, done up in fancy clothing, her hair braided in the latest Ferelden fashions, and adorned in precious jewelry as befit her station. Cousland… her father had been a Teyrn, not an Arl or lowly Bann. The Couslands had once been Kings themselves, before Calenhad had united Fereldan. They were very nearly royalty as far as an apostate’s son from Lothering was concerned.

He must have drifted off to sleep, as the images came flying through his mind, jarring him with a dread that turned his stomach chilled him to the bone. Carver had seen far too many darkspawn in his short life for his liking, and he knew he would see so many more. It was a sad irony that the things that took his twin from them were the same things that he was bound to fighting for the rest of his life. But images of darkspawn, leering and crowing as they beat on their chests or challenged each other for dominance wen spinning through his head. They pulled at him, dragging him body-less through the Deep Roads and down, deep, deep down. Something was sleeping down there, he could _FEEL_ it. He didn’t understand it, but at that moment, he wanted more than anything else in the world for it to keep sleeping.

Carver sat straight up, his head crashing into the low tent ceiling. He scrambled out of the tent, half-falling and half running for the edge of camp, where he quickly and violently emptied the contents of his stomach. He crouched on his hands and knees, heaving as he tried to gain control over his raging, confused emotions. He felt… strange. Like something dirty had crawled into his skin while he had been sleeping. No, thinking about it was worse…. He was sick again.

A cool hand slid comfortingly up Carver’s spine before tracing slow circles over the muscles of his back. His thin shirt clung to him with perspiration, cool in the night air. He leaned against the legs that had drawn up beside him, shuddering as a wave of revulsion gripped him like a fever.

“Beth…” He mumbled as a deft hand touched his forehead, flipping over to gauge his temperature against smooth skin. No, he realized… no, it couldn’t be Bethany.

Carver looked up at the Grey Warden Rowan as she bent over him, her hair mussed from sleep, but her eyes soft and understanding.

“You don’t need to explain. I know what you saw.” She said in a low, tired voice, her vocal cords straining in a way that did not match her age.

“You… you have dreams too?” Carver asked, shivering now, but his stomach had settled. Rowan crouched beside him, knees bent and ready to spring. She’d been roused with his tossing, long before he had woken, snapping to immediate alertness like a seasoned veteran. Which, she supposed she was now. Other wardens may have served longer, but there was only one other who could argue they had helped to stop a Blight. Her eyes were soft as she remembered her first nightmares, and how she had gone stumbling through her first days as a warden. Rowan had not… adjusted well. All things considered, Carver was adapting fairly normally. He had not taken to it like her sister Laurel had… but no many could claim as much. At least he was not showing any signs of the denial that had gripped Rowan for so long.

Rowan offered Carver a skin of water, and he gratefully took it, rinsing the lingering and sour taste of the nightmares from his mouth.

“There is no Blight, we had hoped… We thought you might be one of the lucky ones. Some of us get them more than others. It’s worse for those joined during a Blight.”

“You…. You joined during a Blight.” Carver had no control over his words now. His mind was still racing, and thoughts popped out of his mouth as they occurred to him. Rowan didn’t seem to mind.

“I did.” They sat in silence in the dark for a few long moments. Rowan shifted impatiently, and Carver took the hint. His limbs shook weakly for a few seconds when he tried to stand, strength utterly spent from the grueling pace and his unpleasant reaction to the sickening feeling the nightmare had left behind. Rowan seized one of his arms, dragging him to his feet, and allowing him to steady himself on her shoulders. Carver mumbled his thanks as she guided him back to their tent.

“You know… You aren’t nearly as terrifying as Nate made you sound.” Carver mumbled around a yawn as he settled back into his bedroll. In the darkness next to his left shoulder, he felt Rowan shift as she snorted derisively.

“I suppose the term _‘man-eater’_ was used?”

“Mmmmm…. huh…. something like that.  Don't worry....I think... you're quite nice.” Carver responded drowsily as exhaustion took hold and sleep began to overtake him.

“Well… don’t get used to it.”


	5. Life as a Warden: You Kill Darkspawn Then You Die

"Well... Ostwick was not what I expected..."  Carver chattered, growing annoyed with the heavy silence Rowan let stretch between them.  She had dragged him through the new city at break-neck pace. 

Ostwick seemed a great deal cleaner than Kirkwall, smooth stone streets swept clear and decorated with flowering plants on every corner.  The people flowed around them, nodding politely and smiling with an air of comfort and ease that Kirkwall citizens would have replaced with distrust and tight, hunched shoulders. 

It was cooler in Ostwick too, the walls were not so high and thick as Kirkwall, and wind off the the coast swept through carrying the salty scent of the sea.  Carver caught himself staring at a street musician, perched on a barrel and playing a lute, grinning and colorful.  It felt like his attention was being pulled in a hundred different directions as the city moved around him.  There was always something to look at, something new to catch hold of one of his senses.  

Rowan had seized him by the arm, pulling him through the crowds to what must have been the prison, a grumpy look on her face.  How could she look like she was not even the least bit curious about the bustle of life around her?

"It was a waste of time.  I could have told Stroud it would be.  This is a fool assignment."  Rowan replied over her shoulder, as grumpy as ever.  Carver was becoming quite used to it.

"You would rather be underground, killing darkspawn?"

"I would."  Rowan replied, eyes narrowing as she tried to anticipate where her companion was going with this.  Carver shivered at the prospect, his top lip curling at the idea of returning to the Deep Roads.

"Not me."

"Well, you won't have much of a choice in the matter pretty soon."  Rowan quipped, skipping up and over a few boulders, and pausing to survey the little valley below.  Carver sauntered up behind her, unwilling to let the conversation die or lull back into the uncomfortable silence.

"And none of the prisoners in Ostwick's prison were suitable recruits?"

"It's not a Blight, Carver.  People are not as eager to join up.  Especially when you mention it will kill you."

"The Joining you mean?  Not everyone dies.  I thought it was a fairly small fraction."  Carver felt his brow furrow as he puzzled, fingers raking through his hair as he twitched, unable to keep still as he waited for Rowan to finish scouting.  She sighed almost sadly, her green eyes falling on him as she skipped back down from the boulder where she had been perched.

"We're all dying Carver.  Some are lost in the Joining, it's true.  Sometimes I think they are the lucky ones."  Rowan was frightfully serious, the lines of her face resolute and resigned to her fate.

"What?  How are they lucky?"  It was a silly thing to say, and Carver felt his mouth tighten as he scowled at her.

"In war, victory.  In peace, vigilance.  In death, sacrifice.  It's only once we are dead that we can rest.  For some it comes sooner, but for the rest of us, we put our heads down and push on until the Calling."

"The-"

"The dreams will fade.  Then, in about thirty years, they'll come back.  The Blight will slowly start to corrupt you.  I've been told you can feel it little by little creep up on you.  And you'll feel the pull to the Deep Roads once more.  The older Wardens who hear the Calling go off with the Legion of the Dead.  To die in battle rather than waste away." 

The day was bright and sunny, cheerful even.  But Carver felt a chill run through him as goosebumps rose on his arms beneath his armor.  The other Wardens had been kind enough to outfit him after his Joining, and he still felt an odd, almost proud thrill upon seeing the griffon stretch across his broad chest.  But now... now it felt a bit heavier, and the griffon seemed to have Rowan's resigned, almost flat and unemotional acceptance.  There was a timer on his life now.  He had precious few years left, and he would have to make them count.

"Even with all of that, there were still a few interested in Ostwick.  Two that would hang if we did not see fit to conscript them."  Rowan continued casually, almost conversationally.  She stepped lively along the path that lead down the steep slope into the valley she'd surveyed.

 "Wait, and we didn't?  You would let them hang?" 

"Yes."

"Why?"

"One was a rapist, and the other had lies behind his eyes.  If there is one thing I can spot at a distance, it is a noble man pretending to be decent when he is rotten and corrupted inside."  Rowan spat the words with a vengeance that hinted there was a story to them.  Another time perhaps.

"The Wardens do not take recruits out of pity.  We do not take every condemned prisoner."  Rowan continued vehemently.

"You... took me."  Carver's voice was soft, and he was watching his steps down the steep hill, but he felt his fingers scratch nervously at his palms.  Rowan stopped, whirling to look at him, eyes flashing.

"Stop that.  Anders may be a colossal idiot, but we trust our own.  He says you are worth recruiting so you are worth recruiting." 


	6. The Trouble with Fennecs

Carver and Rowan had stopped around mid-day to make camp by a serene little lake.  They were still a few days from the rendezvous point that Stroud had communicated, and had agreed not to go into the little town at the crossroads.  It was better that the townspeople did not know there were wardens about.  They were making good time, and the lake provided an opportunity for a well-earned respite.

Shameless and confident, Rowan stripped her armor and clothes off in her usual ritual when she encountered an opportunity for washing.  

The first time she’d ever done this, Carver had rushed to avert his eyes in a polite manner.  He was no gentleman and no chaste chantry brother,  but he’d felt an embarrassed heat rush across his face.  The other Grey Wardens who had been there had laughed at his display of mis-placed gallantry, and Rowan herself had grinned in amusement.  Nathaniel and a few of the others had even joined her, taking the opportunity to wash, and relishing the rare sensation of being clean.

But now, they were alone.  The other Wardens branched out, each to their own tasks - hunting,  scouting, and recruiting.  In a few days time, they would reach the rendezvous, and the others would slowly join them.  Then it would no longer be just the two of them.  

Carver felt a strange twinge in his chest, a reluctance to let go of the easy camaraderie he had built with Rowan.  He’d gotten used to having her at his back in a fight, her swords spinning out as she danced around him.  He’d even picked up using a shield again… something Mors had bothered him over on multiple occasions, but he had not done since Ostagar.  He had gotten used to her grumbled swearing and clever lying to those they met along the way.  He had even started being able to stomach her terrible ram-meat stew.  

But none of that would be going away… there would just be more of them around.  Carver felt a thrill of excitement in getting to know Nathaniel or Torrence or Pierre… or even the intimidating Ser Stroud in the same way he had come to know Rowan.  But… somehow he doubted it would be the same.  Carver had a sneaking suspicion that waking up, crammed into a tiny tent in the middle of no-where next to one of the guys would not be nearly as pleasant as waking up to Rowan’s muffled snoring and jumbled limbs.  Maybe it was for the best though.  He’d had a strange, warm feeling - almost of belonging-  begin to bloom in his chest the last time he’d woken up to find Rowan sleeping face-down next to him, her leg thrown over, and tucked between his.

Maybe it was this bittersweet spirit that moved Carver to finally join Rowan in her ablutions.  She grinned her characteristic, lopsided grin when he started peeling off his armor.  Tossing her small-clothes onto the top of her own pile of discarded clothing, Rowan took off running toward the lake.  She shouted over her shoulder at Carver, almost laughing with the giddiness of impending cleanliness.

“Grab the soap, will you?  It’s in my bag!”   

Carver did as he was told, grabbing the bar of soap and chucking off the last of his clothing before following his fellow Grey Warden into the lake.

* * *

It was some time later, when Rowan and Carver pulled themselves out of the lake - Rowan had insisted on staying in until she had “scrubbed out every nook and cranny” and their fingertips had started to shrivel.  By some divine miracle, Carver had managed to keep his eyes from straying too far.  

He was forced to avert them when Rowan sprang out of the water, shaking her tangled, dripping hair like a dog.  She bounded up onto the shore without so much as a warning, and though he did not intend to look, he saw a great deal of Rowan revealed.  He might have been distracted by the gentle curves, small waist and corded muscle - if he had not caught a glimpse of the jagged scars that criss-crossed her freckled back.  It hurt to think of how she’d gotten all of them, shining and pale like flaws on a great marble statue.

“Carver!  Carver you arse!  Where are my clothes?”  Rowan’s voice called to him from the shore, and Carver turned back toward her to see Rowan standing with a striped Grey Warden tabard wrapped around her middle, barely covering her.  Her arms crossed over her chest, and she did not look amused.  

Carver laughed, thinking this was another of her little jokes.  She threw one of his boots into the lake.

“Hey!  Hey!”  Carver sputtered, trying to reach her in time to rescue the other.  He was too late.

Their camp looked ransacked, with tiny animal footprints all over.  They found Rowan’s bags shredded, her clothing ruined or dragged off.  Carver’s belongings received a similar fate, but his pile of clothing on the shore had been left alone.

“Probably the smell spared them.”  Rowan sniffed, and he rolled his eyes at her dismissively.  They gathered the surviving items, and cobbled together suitable outfits, agreeing that they would have to stop into town after all.  Rowan was in favor of nicking clothing from the lines of farms along their route, but Carver refused.  Most of the people in this area were poor, and they would not steal what little they had.

“Fine.  We’ll head into town in the morning.  Until then… this will have to do.”  Rowan crossed her arms over her chest, looking smaller than normal and a little lost in the great folds of one of Carver’s shirts.  Her blue breeches had a giant tear across one of her thighs, and a few slashes across the shin of the opposite leg.  He could not help but notice that the thin fabric of his tunic was a bit more translucent than he had realized when he’d worn it.  Still, there was something oddly satisfying about seeing her in his clothes.

“Well?  Not so bad, yeah?”  Carver asked, modeling his own outfit, a tunic that he had ripped the shredded sleeves off of, and a pair of trousers that had somehow survived with little more than a few bite-marks.  Rowan burst out laughing, gripping her side as her entire body rocked forward.

“This is absurd!  We look like we’ve been mauled… by fennecs!”


	7. A Warden's Work is Never Done

The Warden Outpost where they were to rendezvous with Stroud and the others was little more than a crumbling old tower that had been set along the coast atop a cliff. It might have also functioned as a lighthouse, as Carver squinted up at the top, he noticed the sun glinting off of glass. He opened his mouth to ask, but Rowan grabbed him by the arm, hauling him toward the heavy door at the base of the tower.

“It’s no Vigil’s Keep but it is ours.” She mumbled, as if she knew what he was thinking. Growing up in Fereldan, Carver had heard the tales of the Wardens of Vigil’s Keep. He had always wanted to see it. Questions burned on his tongue as he realized Rowan had been there. Rowan had been one of the Wardens who had reclaimed it after all of those years of exile.

Rowan released him as they entered the tower, and Carver had to duck to fit through the stone doorway. Cozy little place.

Two grizzled wardens with hard eyes and scars and beards to rival Stroud’s greeted them. They did not rise from their cards, offering only a grunt and an inclination of the head. One flicked a short, wicked-looking dagger between his fingers absently.

A scraping sound echoed through the tower as a third man pushed his chair back from the table, getting to his feet. He was younger than the other two, and his sandy-brown hair was neatly combed to match a nearly impeccable uniform.

Carver anticipated the accent before the man even spoke.

“My Lady Cousland, your radiance remains undimmed by this life, brilliant as always!”

_Orlesian._

Rowan jerked back, out of the man’s grasp before he could bend and kiss the hand he had taken in his. She crashed into Carver’s chest, and instinctively, he reached out, catching her elbows. The man’s unflappable gaze slid over this exchange, his lips quirking oddly at the corners.

“Is Stroud here?” Rowan demanded bluntly, addressing the men playing cards more than the man standing in front of her.

“Aye.” One of the men grunted in a thick Marcher accent, concentrating hard on his cards and still twirling his knife. The other puffed on a pipe, seemingly ignoring Rowan’s comments.

Faster than Carver could follow, Rowan was at the side of the table, the dagger snatched right out of the older man’s quick digits. She slammed it down between his fingers, uncomfortably close as she buried the blade in the wooden table.

“Oh, I have your attention then?” Rowan snarled, leaning over the man imperiously, the little dagger still vibrating with the force of being planted in the table.

“He’s all the way up. Been here a few days. Got a letter this morning has him all bothered. Better catch him while you can.” The information came from the other man sitting at the table, his eyes wide and trained on the dagger.

Rowan immediately turned on her heel and marched off, not bothering to pause or show the slightest bit of concern about turning her back on the man she had just threatened. As Carver trailed after her, he heard the men’s muttered exchanges, assuming they were out of earshot. He lingered on the stairs as long as he dared, eavesdropping curiously.

_“Bit of a temper on that one.”_

_“Are you mad? That’s Rowan Cousland. She’s one of the Wardens that took down the archdemon.”_

_“Not all there if you ask me.”_

_“Well, would you be? We weren’t in Fereldan during the Blight and it was bad enough here with darkspawn popping out of every crack and hole in the ground. Imagine the shit she’s seen.”_

_“I heard old Loghain had her tortured.”_

_“And she still put his daughter on the throne?”_

_“That was after she had parted him from his own head I’m sure.”_

_“I thought that was her sister, the Hero of Fereldan?”_

_“Nah. Her sister got the credit for killing the Archdemon and all the glory, but Rowan is the one who killed Loghain. Buddy of mine was at the Landsmeet. Said she took his head clean off in hand-to-hand combat. Didn’t expect such a little thing to threaten that tough old bastard.”_

_“_ Merde, _I heard she hung the traitor Howe, made him a noose from his own innards.”_

_“Damn miracle Stroud still has all his fingers as often as he travels with her.”_

“ **Carver!** ” Rowan’s voice echoed down the stairwell, and he jumped in surprise. He’d forgotten himself, lost in the three men’s conversation. He hurried up the stairs, the sound of the Wardens’ laughter floating up and following behind him.

The top of the tower had been converted into a dormitory, with wooden beds crammed side-by side around the tower and large, open windows that let in the sea air. A breeze caught Carver full in the face as he entered the room.

Stroud was packing his belongings, folding them neatly into his pack and frowning in a way that accentuated the downward swoop of his mustache. Rowan was standing cross-armed at the end of his bed.

“So thats it? That’s all you are going to tell me? Pressing business you need to see to with Janeka?”

“Yes.” Stroud answered flatly, undeterred by Rowan’s bluster. She sputtered, clearly upset by his lack of intimidation.

“I’ve heard of a new tunnel opening up outside of Kirkwall. Nathaniel and a few others left yesterday to check it out. I am sure they would not mind some help.” Stroud’s mustache twitched, and Carver could almost swear Stroud was suppressing a smile.  He enjoyed sparring with Rowan.

“A new tunnel? With Darkspawn? So close to the city?” Rowan’s anger and annoyance faded, and concern took over as her green eyes narrowed.

“Some slavers must have tunneled a bit too deep. Torrence sent word that there was a collapse that opened up into the Deep Roads. They don’t know how far it is, but we want to discourage any… **_adventurers_** from exploring before we know for certain.” Stroud was looking meaningfully at Carver. Carver felt his ears heat up, and inwardly cursed Mors for the umpteenth time since becoming a Warden. Then, a thought occurred to him.

“Kirkwall, you said?” Carver asked, perking up.

“Mmm.” Stroud grunted in the affirmative.

“What, you leave a sweetheart behind? Don’t worry, we usually stop over a few days in major cities once we have finished scouting. To rest up and re-supply.”

“I…was thinking of my mother.” Carver fumbled, ears on fire now as the words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. _Maker,_ why did he always do that? A strange look crossed Rowan’s face, quick and ephemeral as it rode the coat-tails of her surprise. It was almost… soft? No, it couldn’t be, he was mistaken.

“Rowan will see that you have time to look in on her. But… you may find it’s not always easy - or fair- to drop in unexpectedly on those you leave behind. Each goodbye could be your last. You could disappear without a word. It… wears on people.” Stroud’s voice was unusually soft, his eyes looking blue and far-away and sad as he focused them intensely on Carver. Carver looked at Rowan, who turned sharply away, green gaze downcast as her dark eyebrows scrunched together. His tongue suddenly felt heavy and swollen and dry in his mouth as he tried to swallow thickly.

“I understand.” Carver managed hoarsely, and Stroud finally blinked, returning his attention to his brimming pack.

“Take the boy. Teach him the signs. Show him what it is to be a Warden.” Stroud rumbled gruffly in Rowan’s direction as he clamped his pack closed and hoisted it onto his back. Rowan nodded obediantly, though her eyes glittered suspiciously as she watched him.

“Map the passages?”

“Leave that to Nate. His writing is better than yours.”


	8. Trapped!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find it on Tumblr: http://rayeliann.tumblr.com/post/126303566263/prompted-trapped-rover

In an uncharacteristic show of consideration for Carver (he was still having the nightmares, having trouble keeping down her cooking, yet fighting the ravenous appetite that came with becoming a Warden), Rowan decided they would depart the Warden outpost the next day.  She did not say they were staying the night for his benefit, as Carver would have objected forcefully to any notion that he might have shown weakness.  But he saw the way she watched his movements and her green gaze lingered on the dark circles beneath his eyes.  Her only comment was that she was looking forward to a hot meal and a real bed.

If it could be called as much.

Carver barely fit on the tiny cots that were crammed into the 'dormitory' where they had first encountered Stroud.  It was almost comical to imagine the gigantic, gruff warrior trying to sleep on one of the lumpy little mattresses.  Stroud was a large man, and he had a great deal of weight on Carver (all muscle of course), and Carver found his own shoulders cramped from the narrow bed as his feet stuck off the end.

He found he also missed the warmth and steady rhythm of Rowan's breathing beside him, snuggled into the curl of his arm.  They had not been traveling together for long, but it seemed he had already become used to her.  She had picked a cot nearby, and her lithe body curled comfortably into the cot, blankets pulled up to her chin.  He'd heard her sigh contentedly in the dark.

* * *

 

He woke before Rowan the next morning, which was unusual in itself.  She was such a light sleeper, normally his stirring would bring her to wakefulness, and she would be up and ready to move on before he had opened his eyes.

Her wild brown hair tumbled over her pillow as she scrunched it beneath her head, arms locked around it in a vise-grip.  Her covers rose and fell with her heavy breathing, and her delicate eyelids flickered with movement.  She was dreaming.

Even so, she looked more peaceful than Carver had ever seen her before, and he could not bring himself to wake her.  His stomach grumbled loudly, so instead, he crept downstairs in search of breakfast.

When Carver approached the kitchen of the Warden Outpost, the cook was swearing in a flood of colorful metaphors and anatomical improbabilities that might have made the most hardened of sailors blush. Carver felt himself blinking in surprise, his ears burning as he hovered in the doorway.

Cookie was a small, round, older lady with a rope-like braid of hair the color of iron. Carver had gotten to know her when she caught him rummaging for food the day before. Cookie was not a Warden herself, but she had been with them for many, many years. Since the Blight had taken her family. She could not fight - she was too old anyway - but at the very least, she could make sure those that did fight got a warm meal, a clean bed, and a safe place to recover from their wounds. Carver rather liked her.

Cookie’s tirade seemed to be directed at the corners of the room and the grain sacks. It had to be mice the way she was waving her broom about. She caught sight of Carver in the doorway and turned on him.

“In or out, boy! It’s bad luck to lurk in doorways.”

“Yes, uh… sorry Ma’am.”

“Don’t you Ma’am me. What did I tell you?”

“Sorry, Cookie.” Carver grinned cheekily as she roughly cleared a space for him at the counter, already reaching to get him a plate. She leaned over the stove, loading the plate with the usual mix of hearty breakfast foods. Carver’s stomach rumbled.

Cookie dropped the plate in front of Carver with an unceremonious clatter. He grabbed the fork she tossed him and dug in. Cookie was Fereldan and far more talented at cooking than anyone Carver had encountered in a long while. It felt like ages since he’d had a good, hot Fereldan breakfast. If he closed his eyes, it was almost like he was home again…

“Tsk, tsk, that Warden appetite never ceases to amaze me.” Cookie offered Carver a wide, toothy grin as she took the plate he had cleaned in record time. His stomach gurgled appreciatively. Cookie pushed a cup of liquid in front of him, and Carver was startled to see it was white. _They had milk here._

“Boy, do you know anything about traps?”

“Uhh…. the basics.” “Have a look at this then. Blasted things won’t snap shut on those little furry demons.” Cookie dropped the biggest mousetrap Carver had ever seen into his lap on her way out the side-door. She was carrying a bucket, likely headed to the well. Carver fought the urge to make a comment about overkill, and set about inspecting the trap.

He was not lying when he’d said he only knew the basics. He had been deactivating them in the dark in the Deep Roads here and there, but darkspawn traps were crude and ineffective. Deactivating them usually consisted of tossing a bit of rubble into them until they snapped shut.

Carver was immersed in figuring out the mousetrap (which had been put together by someone who knew a great deal more about traps than he), when a snuffling in the doorway broke his reverie. He’d lost track of time, but it seemed Rowan was up finally.

Rowan’s hair stuck up in the back, freshly washed curls (she had been positively _gleeful_ over getting a chance to bathe the night before) falling into her face as she squinted into the sunlight that poured through the kitchen windows. She was wearing a long cotton tunic, the wide oval neckline slipping off of one of her shoulders, exposing freckles and the swooping navy black lines of her tattoos. A stray thought of Carver's wondered what the lines formed.  He had been too polite to look at her on any of the occasions they had bathed together.  He'd felt that looking at her in that sort of way violated some kind of tenuous trust.  The swooping lines looked like wings. _How far down her back did they go?_

The tunic was an off-white cream color, the light fabric hanging off of her slender frame as it concealed her narrow curves. To the trained eye, the line of her body beneath was discernible - more so when she stood in front of the window and the morning sunshine cut through the thin fabric, highlighting her svelte silhouette. Carver knew he should look away, but found he could not.

Rowan padded across the kitchen, heading straight for her morning tea.  Carver kept his mouth shut, he knew better than to engage her before she’d had it.

She hopped up onto her tip-toes to reach the mug she preferred from the shelf where he had put it yesterday. The tunic barely covered her as she stretched. She was not wearing pants. _**Maker,** why wasn’t she wearing pants? _

Carver choked, staring hard at the trap in his hands, trying to remember how to move his fingers independently of each other.

Rowan was suddenly right in front of Carver, looking at him over the edge of her mug as she sipped her tea. He froze, every muscle in his body going taunt and tight as he tried to pretend he was unaffected by her presence, and unaware she was walking about barely clothed.

Rowan watched him fidget for a few minutes, her green eyes wide and curious with flecks of gold glittering in the morning sunshine.  She'd positioned herself uncomfortably close, and Carver found it impossible to think of anything other than the way her hips swiveled into place between his bent knees.  

His foot slipped off of the rung of his stool, pitching him sideways as a cramp seized his calf muscles.   

Rowan finished her tea.  She leaned in, putting a hand on his thigh (higher than he would have expected) to steady herself as she popped up onto her toes to set her mug on the counter behind Carver.

“You know… I really like a man who’s good with his hands.” Rowan purred in a low voice that Carver had not heard her use before.

The mousetrap sprang closed, snapping shut with Carver’s hand inside.


	9. Ghosts

They left quite a bit later in the day than Carver had anticipated. It seemed that Rowan was no more eager than he to depart the relative luxury of the Warden Outpost. Stroud had been clear the concern was immediate, and Rowan made up for the delay in leaving by setting a grueling pace.

He’d seen her toss the older, grizzled wardens a wink on her way out the door, and the man she had threatened the previous day grew pink in his cheeks and ears, eyes narrowed as he grit his teeth. It was good they weren’t staying. Rowan did not get along even with those who were on the same side as her.

Carver wondered if Stroud might have assigned her to him as some sort of punishment. He had said that Joining the Wardens was no favor and that they did not do it out of pity. Had he intentionally given Carver to the most disagreeable of his team to prove a point? Carver didn’t know Stroud well, but that seemed out of character for the stoic, practical man. Years with Mors and his Mother had made him quite paranoid.

Carver half suspected that Rowan set the demanding pace to test him, and to thwart any attempts at conversation. She was a far cry from the cheerful, sly woman he had encountered in the kitchen that morning. On anyone else, the behavior she had exhibited that morning might have been mistaken for flirting. Carver heard Nate’s warning echo in the far reaches of his mind. He could see where young men could forget or choose to ignore such a warning. She was quite convincing.

Lucky for Carver, Rowan’s strange behavior had evaporated the moment she donned her Grey Warden armor. It was almost as if the physical weight of it pulled her mood down with it. Her armor was light in comparison to his own heavy silver armor, as Rowan’s advantage in combat came with speed and agility rather than brute strength and a stubborn constitution.

Their silences stretched into the next day, and the one after that.

They still spoke here and there, but Rowan’s mind seemed to be elsewhere, and Carver better than to disturb her. He was too tired, too exhausted to spar with anyone - especially Rowan - anyway.

As they drew closer to Kirkwall, and the landscape changed around them, slowly growing more familiar, it was Carver’s turn to be the taciturn member of the pair.

He must have been thinking on his family, the sharp angles of his face drawn and dark as he glowered at the ground rather than attempting to engage her in conversation when they camped. His fingers lingered, tracing patterns onto a scrap of red cloth he neatly folded and refolded before tucking into the jacket he wore under his heavy breastplate. She did not ask about it. Some things were better off not sharing. Besides, if she got to know him, she might start to care, and Rowan was not sure she could bear to lose another close friend.

In the days of the last leg of their journey, those leading up to their arrival on the slaver coast, Rowan noticed Carver’s sleep was particularly restless.

She chose to say nothing until the night before their anticipated arrival, when Carver had woken with a sharp start, and been so unnerved by whatever he had been dreaming, that he got up and left their little tent.

Rowan was a light sleeper, and they were in such close quarters that his tossing usually woke her. She had become accustomed to it, and had gotten into the habit of faking sleep when he woke suddenly. It was far easier than waving off his countless apologies the next day, and much preferable to his sheepish, embarrassed look when she caught him at his most vulnerable. But on this occasion, he had not even bothered to employ his version of quiet stealth when slipping out of the tent.

Though she had just woken and her joints ached from the exertion of their journey (which she had been quite pleased to shave off nearly a full day of travel time by setting such a demanding pace - even more impressed to find that Carver had not slowed her down), Rowan rose far more silently than Carver ever had (even when he was trying to be stealthy). She eased out of the tent slowly, eyes scanning their surroundings as she looked for Carver.

He was pacing and clenching his hands.

Rowan had not known him long, but she was finding his mannerisms remarkably easy to read and anticipate. Carver bottled emotions. She knew the dreams were not Warden dreams. Not as long as they continued. They had started out as arch-demons and darkspawn, but Carver talked in his sleep… and the words he mumbled were far more telling than he was. He refused to be a burden. If he complained, it was often shallow or had a purpose (if only to distract from a larger, deeper issue). He was the type that did not ask for help, thinking instead that he could handle everything on his own. Stubborn fool, he ran headlong into problems.

His dark hair was a mess, brilliant blue eyes flashing and rimmed in red, accented by the purplish shadows that colored beneath them. His shirt was wide open at the neck exposing scratch marks from his own irritated hands that were an angry red against his fair skin.

Rowan drifted as close as she dared, hovering but not approaching him. She was not good at this sort of thing.

People.

People were Laurel’s department. All Laurel needed to do was give a reassuring smile, a pat on the back, and the right words just fell out of her mouth. Rowan was… more awkward.

It was hard to imagine that there had been a time when their situations were reversed. When she, Rowan, had been the one to give Laurel advice on how to talk to people or handle awkward social interactions. It felt like that had been in another lifetime. That did not matter anyway, she scolded herself.

It was little help reminiscing as Laurel wasn’t here anyway.

It was just her. and Carver.

“They are getting worse as we get closer.” Rowan remarked softly, factually. Carver was facing away from her, but she saw his shoulders stiffen, and pull together defensively.

“It is nothing.”

“It is something. You don’t sleep anymore. You will get yourself killed.”

“Pfffhah! You are one to talk.” Carver fired back as he rounded on her. “I know you are not sleeping either. You try to hide it but you aren’t a very good actress. Sure, you’ve been a Warden longer but I am pretty sure you - we - still need to eat and sleep. You haven’t been doing either.”

“I have. I am accustomed to- “

“Tell that to the circles under your eyes. You’re nervous about something, and you haven’t told me what. I don’t know what we are going in to.”

“I am not nervous!”

“You are! You have been playing with that knife of yours for days.”

“Fine. I’ve been trying to figure out what Stroud is up to, ok?” Rowan snarled. She must have been more tired than she realized, otherwise she never would have admitted as such. She had not seen her reflection in some time, but she had no doubt Carver was right and she had circles beneath her eyes to rival his.

“Fine.” Carver snapped, pivoting away. Rowan followed, unwilling to let him off that easily.

“Is it your mother you have been dreaming of?” Rowan asked bluntly. She dug her heels in, and crossed her arms across her chest. Carver spun back around.

“What does it matter?”

“Ah… not your mother then. I thought not. So who is Bethany? A sweetheart you left behind?” Rowan wheedled, her tone as blunt as before, but it carried an undertone of teasing. Carver’s blue eyes flared in anger rather than amusement.

He closed the gap between them, and Rowan’s stomach dropped a little as she realized she had made a mistake.

Carver seized her by the upper arms in a hold so tight she thought he would literally sweep her off her feet. His teeth gritted into a snarl. He was terrifying.

“Don’t you… Don’t ever…” He sputtered, eyes cloudy with fury. Rowan had not really seen Carver in battle, but she recognized the look. She’d seen it before, and the familiarity of it hit her with a pang of nostalgia.

She wondered where dear old Oghren was now. Probably drunk somewhere and mowing down darkspawn as he exchanged insults with his companions. _Maker_ , she missed that dwarf.

She waited out the short burst of anger with a calm, cool head rather than rise to the bait. She ignored the way his fingers dug in to her arms in a dull ache that was… painful but not at all unpleasant. In another situation (one in which he was not ready to rip her head clean off) the way in which Carver had seized her would have been quite… _exciting_.

In just a few seconds, Carver’s grip loosened, and he released her, looking horrified with himself. He looked like he would apologize but Rowan beat him to it, waving him off.

“I apologize. I should not have pried. There are things… that I do not share. I cannot fault you for wanting to keep your own secrets.”

“Bethany was my sister. My twin sister.” Catching the past-tense that Carver had used, Rowan’s heart pinched and she felt a wave of guilt catch her. No wonder she had gotten such a response.

“How… what… I’m sorry…” She fumbled, tripping over her own curiosity and poor manners. It had been some time, but she felt the pain of her lost family sharp and sudden like a punch in the chest all the same.

“Ogre.” Carver replied stoically. Rowan felt the strangest urge to fling herself at him and hug him. She resisted and thankfully, it passed as quickly as it came upon her.

Instead, she patted his arm awkwardly.

“Fate has chosen an odd way for you to have your revenge.”

“Indeed.” They stood in silence for some time, birds chirping in the trees as dawn crept up around them.

“Well. We had better be going then. It will be dawn soon.” It was Carver who suggested it, and Rowan started, looking at him in surprise. It sounded like something she might say out of habit, forced and mechanical. It was strange to hear it in his voice.

“I think… We have a few hours yet, and we’ve made such excellent time. We can afford a small nap. We do not know what we are walking in to.” Rowan started for the tent when she finished talking, pausing only long enough to be sure that Carver was following.


	10. Reminders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a bit of violence, not too graphic but there's violence and blood. 
> 
> Carver experiences confusion and flashbacks that could be interpreted as connected to PTSD from the Blight.

It was some time after mid-day, before sunset painted the sky when Carver felt a peculiar tingle creep up his spine. It was like an itch he couldn't seem to find to scratch, only it was on the inside.

Rowan must have felt it too. She’d taken a few steps before freezing in place, head cocked as if listening. Carver froze too, waiting as his muscled tensed, coiling and waiting to spring.

Rowan must have heard something, because she was off, running full-tilt, feet sliding over sandy soil as she half fell down the side of the mountain. Carver followed. He didn’t know how he managed to keep up. He half did it so he would know where he was going, and half in case Rowan lost her balance and pitched herself over the edge of the dangerous cliffs.

Slaver dens spotted the coast. He remembered that much from his time in Kirkwall. There had been times when he and Mors had camped in abandoned dens while they worked for the Red Iron. Those were not easier days (they were refugees, scraping to get by, their future uncertain), but they were certainly more complicated. The thought of encountering darkspawn there had never crossed their minds.

Rowan dropped her pack in one fluid, graceful movement before rounding the corner ahead.

The itching in Carver’s head had become a pounding now, a thrumming that was impossible to ignore. He did the same, carefully dropping his pack next to Rowan’s and pulling his sword from his back.

He didn’t know what he expected to find, but as he rounded the corner the stench of stale air and death hit him like a wall. Wardens dotted the little outcropping, silver armor and weapons glimmering in the sunlight.

Nathaniel Howe shouted a greeting over a wiry shoulder as he planted a firm foot in the chest of a small-ish Hurlock and pushed the creature roughly back. It opened it’s mouth and sprayed black blood in a gruesome death-gurgle. Rowan twisted away, disappearing from behind it nearly as quickly as she had appeared. Nathaniel cooly notched another arrow in his bow.

Carver heard screaming.

But… That wasn’t right, the Wardens were not screaming, they were going about their business with an almost stoic indifference, slow and methodical. They did this every day. This was who they were. This was who _he_ was now.

Then who was screaming?

Following the sound, he clattered into the fray, clearing a path with his massive sword. Mors had always joked he was compensating. But he preferred to keep things at arm’s length. If they could not get close, they could not hit him.

Rowan popped up again in the fray, her swords glittering a dangerous green that mingled with the blighted blood that was spattered over her. He’d lost track of her, she was whirling and spinning and it was too hard to guess where she would appear next.

Carver had known rogues who could melt into shadows so skillfully and move so silently that they were nearly invisible. Rowan was not that sort of rogue. In a clash, Rowan became a blur of movement, unpredictable and undistinguishable. You only saw her when it was far too late.  She ducked under long weapons and moved around outstretched limbs as if she could predict an opponent’s movements.

She flickered around Carver, and he felt her lean against him, pressing against his back to push off and gain momentum before she was gone again. Her lips moved when he looked over his shoulder at her, but her voice was far-off and garbled. It was like he was hearing her through water, and he could not be sure of what she’d said. But then she was gone.

Carver had dealt rather neatly with a Genlock that had been casting spells, closing the distance between the creature and the fray with a mighty leap and a powerful swipe of his sword.

He still could not find the screaming.

Someone was shouting now, and clearly.

They were shouting to retreat.

Why were the Wardens not listening? Not a single one of them flinched or responded to the order. Not one of them stepped back.

One of the younger Wardens was skewered violently by an Alpha as it emerged from the tunnel, blinking into the dimming sunlight. Rowan reached him too late, ducking under the cudgel and taking the creature’s head off of it’s body in a dramatic sweep. Muscles flexing and a hideous expression on her face, she stood gasping over the thing’s slumped form as she caught her breath.

Nathaniel and a kind-looking young red haired man reached their fallen comrade. Rowan’s green gaze flickered over the slain man, and she turned away, stalking toward the entrance of the den.

It was dusk now and the grip of Carver’s sword was slippery with blighted black blood. His knuckles burned from the force with which he gripped his weapon, but he dared not let it go.

He did not see any more darkspawn… but they were coming. He knew it.

He couldn't feel the whisper in his head, but he knew they were there. Lurking in the trees. The moonlight would set off their armor and glint off of their ghastly faces revealing them in hideous detail.

Wait, no… that was not right.

There were no trees here, and the sun was not yet down. There were a few hours until the moon rose. Why had he…?

Was that a horn he heard?

Someone was still screaming.

Rowan was standing in front of him, green eyes narrowed and sharp. Nathaniel was with her, and he reached toward Carver. Rowan stopped him.

“Careful.” She said it softly, watching the young man’s blue eyes as they lit first on her, then on Nate. They were cloudy and confused, but there was no berserker fire in them.

Carver was shaking, a spatter of black filth across his nose as he gripped his sword like a life-line. Rowan stepped closer. She was within range of one of his lunges now, but Carver pulled back, eyes darting about wildly.

“There will be more of them. They must not get through. The King! Has anyone seen the King?” Carver asked wildly, his voice breaking in fear.

“Ostagar.” Rowan breathed as Nathaniel drew up beside her. Howe’s lips flattened into a grim, straight line.

“Poor Bastard. To make it through a thing like that only to come here.”

Rowan answered with a low, almost sympathetic grunt. She stepped inside of Carver’s reach, past the range of his great sword, and reached upwards, to his face. She struck him with a hard, stinging slap. Carver jerked back, glaring at her as his dark eyebrows threaded together. His sword lowered, but he snarled at his companions angrily. His fair skin pinked where she had hit him.

“ _Andraste’s ass_!”

“Are you with us?”

“Yes! I’m here I - “

“No, don’t explain. I know.” Rowan cut off the explanation, not wanting to embarrass him further. She’d thought it a kindness, but he bristled.

“No. No, you _don’t_.”

 


End file.
